by Jason Grant The entire king-sized bed is mine now, but I can’t seem to move from the left side to the right because on the nights you were here—laying there—if I dared move from my side to yours in the middle of the night it was like I-was-crossing-some-boundary you-needed…
by John Timothy Robinson The elegance of light through sconce-dust glass with swirled, transparent fingerprints in grooves is not as pleasing when the chill sweeps past, this image, so cliché, yet still as true. Six tiny candles flicker in darkness as frozen rain hammers tree-limbs to the ground. They said…
by John Timothy Robinson In Hard Scratch Hollow beside a cave, there was a rock formation that resembled some malformed altar. Each side sloped up where light, green moss covered the top and bottom edges. This large form was positioned in a gully’s end under trees in cow pasture. Fountainlike…
by John Timothy Robinson They called my sonnet a disregard of form, prefer instead work that preserves, revives a beauty now which makes a reader worn of meter, rhyme, what day it was, the time. We don’t though often talk that way, emphatic to modulate a voice, almost of air….